


body like a teenage dream

by LydiaOfNarnia



Series: five times, one time prompts [6]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: Written for a prompt on Tumblr: "Five times Babe caught his friends getting busy and one time he got caught BIG TIME (featuring Babe, Gene and really surprising surprise party that didn't go as planned, you know those stories about people who didn't know all their friends were hidden and waiting to yell "surprise!" and they did something inappropriate and it got real awkward real fast?)"





	body like a teenage dream

**Author's Note:**

> i feel a lot of shame
> 
> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

Babe _really_ needs to pee.

There's not much dignity in doing an Irish jig outside the bathroom door for twenty minutes, but, well, that's where Babe’s life is right now. His bladder feels like it's about to explode. He can't help whimpering every time he shuffles his feet. It's hard to breathe.

And still, the goddamn door stays locked.

“Jesus, please, I'm gonna die out here!” he hollers, pounding on the door again. He's not even sure who’s in there. He knows Julian is passed out on the couch downstairs, Spina is at work, and Fran said she was going out for groceries. It can only be one person using up all the hot water, and Babe always though Bill was a better friend than this.

“Come on! Just let me in! We've both seen each other’s dicks before, I promise it won't be weird!”

The locked door doesn't budge.

Bill doesn't even like long showers. He's more of the “rinse and run” type of person, and has been ever since they were kids and he'd hide out in Babe’s bedroom to avoid being forced to take a bath. (One of Babe’s older brothers ratted them out to Bill’s mom every time, but the boys always considered themselves the epitome of stealth.) This is ridiculous.

“I'm gonna piss in your bed!” Babe hollers. No answer.

If anything would have been guaranteed to elicit a reaction from Bill, it's that. Still, there's no noise from inside the bathroom. The door remains shut. Babe’s brow furrows out of more than desperation now. He can feel a familiar sense of paranoia coating his throat in bitterness, making his stomach vibrate with anxiety. What if something’s wrong? What if something happened, and now his best friend is hurt and totally unable to rescue himself?

Bill, with his tough-as-nails demeanor and smart mouth, is the last person Babe would call helpless. The spare prosthetic leg he keeps in his closet, however, is a visceral reminder that he is all too human. If something awful did happen to Bill, he might not be able to do anything. Maybe he slipped and fell, or hit his head, and now he's just lying there. Meanwhile, Babe is outside bitching about having to pee.

The more he thinks about it, the more convinced he becomes. Something has happened to Bill. That's the only explanation. He's a _horrible_ friend.

He hammers on the door with his fist, alarm heightening the urgency of his movements. “Come on, buddy! Call out to me!”

If Bill is dead, who the hell is going to drive him places? The thought of being forced back onto the city bus makes him nauseous, and Babe’s pounding increases in urgency. Who else in their house is going to cook? Who’s going to do the laundry? Who’s going to give Babe spontaneous pep talks that kind of don’t make sense but always leave him feeling better?

Bill’s his best friend. He _needs_ Bill.

There’s no other choice -- he has to break the door down. He throws his full weight against it once -- twice -- three times --

The fourth time, the lock gives. Babe’s shoulder is radiating with pain, but he has no time to process that as he stumbles through the doorway. The bathroom’s flourescent lights are on. The shower is running, steam fogging the mirrors and leaving the air heavy. He’s expecting to find Bill on the ground, naked, maybe bleeding. This is what he’s prepared for.

He is not prepared for a shampoo bottle to be sent flying at his head.

“Dammit, Heffron!” Bill hollers over the sound of much higher-pitched shrieking. “Get the hell out!”

Bill’s naked, alright, and standing right beneath the shower flow -- but mercy spares Babe a look at his most nightmarish parts, because there’s another body pressed to his. Water has dyed the soaked curls black, and Babe will admit he’s never seen quite this much of her before, but Fran is unmistakable just from the mortified, _murderous_ look she’s shooting him over her shoulder.

 _Out for groceries,_ Babe thinks faintly. _Right._

“Go somewhere else, Babe,” Fran orders, her voice cracking. The couple in the shower are doing their best to shield each other’s bodies from view, but Bill is missing a leg (props to them both for their ambition -- shower sex is tricky on two legs) and Fran has her back to Babe, so he’s not seeing everything, but he’s seeing enough.

“I -- uhh --” The smart thing to do would be to run out of there. Babe’s not smart, but he is desperate. “I need to piss.”

“Heffron!”

Babe isn’t listening. He’s already at the toilet and unzipping his fly. If they want to have no decency, they deserve whatever they have to see in return. Bill will probably threaten to kill him later, and Fran might actually kill him, but at least he won’t die from a burst bladder first.

His relieved groan drowns out the curses Bill is hissing under his breath. It takes a minute for the rush of euphoria to die down, and when it does he finds two royally pissed off glares directed at him. He scowls right back. “In the shower? _Really?_ I use that shower.”

“We all use the sofa too, but that ain’t ever stopped Julian!”

Babe takes a moment to think about how this statement applies to his very virgin friend before he blanches, gagging in his own horror. “I’m gonna kill ‘im.”

“Not if I fuckin’ kill you first!” Bill snarls, taking a step forward. “Get out!”

“Okay, okay, jesus, I’m goin’!” Babe can’t make it out of there fast enough. He slams the door behind him -- they’ll probably have to replace the lock, but it’s not like that’s his fault -- and nearly trips as he rushes down the stairs. He almost runs straight into Julian, who’s looking groggy and baffled. From the direction he’s headed, he probably needs to pee too. Babe just grabs him by the shoulders.

“Don’t even try,” he mutters. “It ain’t worth it.”

* * *

Babe doesn’t notice them until he already has the remote in his hand and goes to sit down on the couch, onto to land on something very hard and distinctly non sofa-like.

“Ahh, come on!” he hisses as he springs off of Webster’s legs. “This ain’t even your house.”

Liebgott detaches his mouth from his boyfriend’s neck just long enough to shoot him an unimpressed glower. “Babe, piss off somewhere else.”

This is _his_ damn house. Liebgott is his friend, sure, but he’s not sure how he even _got in_ here, let alone in their studio, on their couch, having sex with his boyfriend. (Webster, contrary to Liebgott’s annoyed chill, looks ready to have an aneurysm on the spot. Babe’s never seen anyone’s face go such a vibrant shade of red. He's almost neon.)

“My roommate is being a dick and won’t let Web in the house anymore.”

“Why?” Babe demands, flopping down on the nearest beanbag chair and switching on ESPN. Liebgott gives a harassed huff. From where his face is buried in Liebgott’s neck, Webster groans like a dying banshee. “Tell me why,” Babe says again, because if he has to put up with this shit he’s getting _something_ out of it.

“Web lit the oven on fire,” Liebgott replies. “Like, actual flames. They had to evacuate the whole apartment building.”

“I didn’t _know_ you couldn’t --” Webster starts, and then stops. He realizes it isn’t worth it.

“So, since you're such a charitable guy, and you still owe me fifty bucks from last month, your house is now our house. Deal with it, Heffron.”

Babe scowls, refocusing his eyes on the TV screen. There's some soccer game on. He doesn't even like soccer, but he turns the volume up as high as it will go and leans back to watch the game.

“What the hell?”

Babe doesn't bother looking back. “Deal with it,” he retorts.

From the sounds behind him a few minutes later, his friends apparently do just that. Babe wishes it bothered him a lot more than it did, because maybe then he'd have the willpower to kick them out -- but, well, he just doesn't have the money to repay Liebgott. If it's not this, the bastard will find something even worse for him to do in return.

Babe really needs to change the locks on their doors.

* * *

The last thing Babe wants to be spending his weekend doing is balancing on a rickety ladder, trying to clean all the windows of the house without breaking his neck in the process.

Bill has no problem doing hare-brained, borderline insane things; but when he doesn’t feel like it, he’s more than willing to bring up excuses like _‘I’ve got one leg’_ or _‘I still have pictures of your purple tuxedo from junior prom’_ or _‘remember how you used to wet the bed until you were eleven?’_ When Bill wants Babe to do something, Babe does it. (At least until the day Babe finally gets enough blackmail on Bill to counterbalance anything he’s got on him. He’s getting there.)

That's why Babe is up on a ladder twenty feet above the ground, balancing a pail of soap water precariously on the highest step. He's just getting to the last window of upstairs, the this is as high as he’ll go. If Bill wants the attic windows cleaned, he can climb up there his own damn self. Babe is more than eager to get back on the ground. His grand plans of passing his Saturday afternoon (Netflix and leftover pizza) may have been put on hold, but they're just as tempting as they were an hour ago.

He reaches up with his wet rag, leaning over to start on the corner of the window, when something from inside catches his eye. He's so startles that he almost tumbles right over.

There are certain… positions that are impossible to mistake. Babe is a guy; he knows what it means to have your hands down _there,_ especially when you're not wearing pants to go along with it. He never wanted to get such a clear view of Julian’s (pale, flat, bony) ass, but now that he has, he feels violated. He's just relieved that Julian is facing one way, instead of the direction that would give Babe a glimpse of just what his hands are doing so far down south.

There are some things you close your goddamn curtains for.

“Oh, for chrissakes,” Babe mutters, and considers just climbing back down. He doesn’t have to acknowledge that this moment ever happened; it would be so much easier to walk away. Better for his peace of mind, his sanity. Better for _everyone._

But if he just passed up such a prime opportunity to mess with Julian, would he really be a good best friend?

So instead of climbing down, he draws his fist back and waits for a heartbeat before slamming it against the glass. The noise reverberates like a gunshot through The bedroom. Julian springs to his feet like he’s been set on fire, and Babe gets a very good look at what he has no desire to look at as his friend reels around. Julian’s eyes are wild, mouth open in a silent scream. When he catches sight of the face in the window, Babe can see the moment a piece of his friend’s soul breaks off from his body and dies.

“Close the goddamn curtains, at least!” he hollers, slamming on the glass again. Julian nods his head like a marionette, jerky and disjointed. Babe waits, watching his awkward penguin-shuffle over to the window, until Julian yanks the curtains shut. It’s too late for Babe’s eyes, but at least his sanity survived unscathed.

At least he’s in his own bedroom, this time. If Babe caught him doing any funny business on the couch he'd have to set a few things on fire, Julian himself being the least of the casualties.

* * *

In Babe’s opinion, _no one_ has any good excuse, because they're not even at home. They're staying in some fancy hotel room for Harry and Kitty’s wedding, and even though they've all got their own rooms, Babe is obliged to pop in on Bill and Fran’s room because he can't find his toothbrush and might have put it in Bill’s bag by mistake.

It's four in the afternoon. They're in a hotel room. They have dinner in an hour. There's absolutely _no good reason_ for anyone to be naked right now.

He still walks in to find the hotel mattress creaking with abandon, the bedframe slamming against the wall, and two bare figures wrapped around each other in bed. More alarming than this, if that's even possible, is the other figure in the room, perched on the covered chair and not even trying to be discreet about the fact that he's staring.

Very little can take Babe by surprise at this point, but this is so out of the blue -- and so bizarre -- that he reels away in horror. As the door bangs shut behind him, his back slams against it, and his hands fly up to cover his eyes. “Holy shit!”

There is a single second of horrified silence, before a drawn out _“Baaaabe,”_ sounds from the bed. If the pure malice in Bill’s tone is anything to go by, he's sick and tired of winding up in this situation.

(How the hell is _Babe_ supposed to feel?)

Babe isn't worried about Bill, however. He's more concerned with the fourth person in the room, the one he can see through his fingers, who’s gaping at him like a deer in the headlights.

Spina looks very pale. His eyes are wide, his shoulders are tense, and it's obvious that he'd rather be hiding under the bed instead of facing Babe down. He opens his mouth and closes it a few times before finally managing to choke out, “It's not what it looks like.”

“Spina,” Babe says slowly, wishing -- oh god, wishing beyond all logic and reason -- that this could be _anything_ but what it looked like. _“Buddy._ You've got your dick out.”

Spina's hand is still positioned conspicuously over his pants. He glances down at it, then at Babe, then back down at his hand again like he's just come to some grand revelation. A few seconds drag on.

“Okay, _yes,”_ he finally says, nodding with enthusiasm, “but whatever you think is going on here is really not what going on he--”

“It's called voyeurism, Babe, jesus christ.” Fran is still on top of Bill. She hasn't moved at all since Babe walked in. Neither has Bill. If Babe had to guess, he'd say she's tired of being in the same position with nothing happening, and wants him out. (He can empathize. He wants out too.) “Some people get their rocks off to Teletubbies, this ain't weird. Now fuckin’ _leave.”_

“I -- I --” Babe chokes on his own words, hand already scrambling behind him for the doorknob. _Leaving_ sounds like the best idea he’s ever heard. “Can I ask one question?”

 _“No,”_ comes the resounding answer of three voices at once. There's nothing ambiguous about it.

Babe gets the door open, and all but tumbles out of the room. It slams shut behind him.

* * *

 “Oh, holy hell! Yes! Right there!”

“Do that again -- Jesus fuck, _ohhhh_ \--”

Babe stands outside the doorway to his best friend’s room. His eyes are wide. His entire body is very, very still.

“I don't want to know,” he mutters to himself. “I don't wanna fuckin’ know.”

_“OH MY GOD! YES!”_

“I don't want to know,” he says again, voice rising in pitch and desperation. “It's not worth it. Just walk away, it's not fuckin worth it --”

There's a crash from the other side of the door, and Babe winces. He has no idea what that could have been, but whatever porn Spina is watching -- obviously some very, very vocal porn -- it sounds like he's really getting into it.

He doesn't want to say anything at all, but Spina’s _got_ to turn it down. He's trying to study, and he can't do that with the obscene moans filling the entire house. If Babe has to put up with another second of this, he's going to go insane.

No, he's sorry. He's a guy. He _understands._ But Spina needs to turn it the hell down.

Without another second of hesitation, Babe pushes the door open. “Spina, buddy, are you kiddin’ me with this --”

He freezes. Spina freezes. The figure on the bed straddling Spina’s lap freezes. Three pairs of eyes widen at once, and Babe chokes on his heart in his own throat.

“Holy shit!” he gasps. _“Julian?”_

“Hi, Babe,” Julian says, sounding faint. “So, I'm not a virgin anymore.”

Babe’s first instinct is to slam the door shut, but even if he wanted to, he couldn't get out of that room fast enough. He reels around to find Fran standing in the doorway, gaping at the scene in front of her.

 _Oh man,_ thinks Babe, a second before Fran opens her mouth. “BILL! HOLY SHIT, GET UP HERE _NOW!”_

When Babe turns back to Julian and Spina, he's not sure whether he wants to cry. Spina looks very close to doing the former; Julian just seems like his soul has departed his body. He's dead already; he's gone. There is no spirit left for his friends to crush.

Babe does the only thing he can think of, and bursts out laughing.

* * *

**_\+ 1_ **

It is the most agonizing Uber ride of his life.

Babe’s not a classy guy, but he has morals, okay? He has dignity. He’s not going to be the guy who jumps his boyfriend in the back of an Uber, because he’s pretty sure that’s illegal, plus he really needs to keep his passenger rating up. It doesn’t matter how gorgeous Gene in in his tight black shirt. It doesn't matter if their bodies burn every time they run together, and Babe can feel his precarious grip on his self-control slipping. It doesn't matter that Gene is making eyes at him like _that._

None of it matters. Babe is strong. He'll pull through. He _has_ to.

At least, until they get home.

They stumble out of the car, clinging to each other, hyperconscious of every brush of skin against skin. Babe barely has the presence of mind to thank the driver before he is being tugged to the front door.

Gene doesn't even wait for him to open the door. Before Babe can get his keys out, his back is slammed against the front door, and Gene’s tongue is forcing its way into his mouth. His first reaction is a gasp; this turns into a groan, and devolves into a laugh. His hands hook on Gene’s thighs and he tugs him close, close, until there is not space between their bodies.

“Gene,” he moans as soon as he regains use of his mouth. “We can't -- can't, not here, oh god --”

 _Shut up, Babe,_ a voice in his head hisses. Gene doesn't say as much, but his lips do all the talking for him. When he captures Babe’s mouth again, his kiss ensures that Babe won't be saying anything else for a long while. He is like putty in his hands. There is no fighting back when Gene is like this, seductive, intense, and demanding. His every touch leaves Babe feeling like he's being electrocuted. Gene is furious, needy and unashamed, and Babe can't protest. He can't do anything but follow Gene’s rhythm and hope he doesn't drown in the undertow.

Hands tangled in Babe’s hair, Gene pulls away from his lips long enough to offer a thin smirk. “Happy birthday, Edward.”

This is the best birthday Babe has ever had. Gene’s body against his is all the presents he could have wanted and more. The press of his lips makes him feel like the wealthiest man in the world.

Gene’s mouth strays to his neck. Babe’s head falls back, a loud groan escaping him. His fingers dig into Gene's shoulders.

“I love you,” he gasps, his words cutting off with a groan. “I love you, I _love_ you, but we can't have sex in the middle of the street, someone's gonna call the cops --”

He feels Gene’s hands rummaging through his jacket pocket. This is a relief, because Babe is sure he lacks the presence of mind to get the keys in the door even if he could fish them out. He is overwhelmed, electrified, everything all at once. If they don't get inside soon, Babe is sure he's going to burn up.

The lock slides. The door swings open. Babe stumbles backwards, Gene on top of him, and he keeps stumbling and stumbling until he hits --

“Should we come back later?”

Babe freezes. Gene, pressed up against him, goes very, very still. The body against Babe’s back is unmoving. He can feel unfamiliar arms, a barrel chest, and the distinct presence of someone who is not supposed to be here.

Gene exhales a shallow breath before he begins untwining himself from Babe’s body. They break apart like shattered glass, turning to face the room behind them. Babe’s heart drops to his feet.

He’s never seen such a smug look on his best friend’s face. Bill doesn’t seem at all bothered by being backed into; instead, he looks like the cat who’s caught the canary. Standing a few feet behind him, beneath a large banner slung across the entryway proclaiming “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABE!” Fran looks thrilled, while Spina seems on the verge of throwing up. Liebgott is mock-gagging over the birthday cake, while Chuck is trying to keep Julian from hiding behind the nearest cluster of balloons. The only thing that keeps Renee from bursting out laughing is the hand clamped over her mouth.

For a moment, all that keeps Babe from passing out on the spot is knowing Gene is right behind him. That’s the only thing that could kill the mood even _more_ than being exposed to all their friends.

For an agonizing moment, no one says anything. His friends don’t say anything; Gene doesn’t say anything; and Babe sure as hell isn’t about to say a word. Each silent second feels like an icicle being driven deeper into his gut, chilling him from the inside out.

Spina is the brave man to finally break the tense moment. “So, uhh, I guess this ain’t the birthday surprise you had in mind?”

“No,” Babe grits out, managing to find his voice at last. “It really isn’t. All of you need to get the hell out.”

Immediately, a chorus of protests rises up from the assembled party -- everything from “you ingrate, we brought cake!” to “does this mean I can have your presents?” to “no, leave the balloons _alone,_ they’ll go everywhere, stop _touching_ them!” As his friends spring forward, Babe takes a step back on instinct -- straight into Gene’s chest. The feeling of Gene’s hand coming to rest against his arm rekindles a spark of their former fire, and gives him the determination to persevere.

“Guys, I love you for this. But, you know what? I've put up with so much from all of you. You owe me this. Go away, come back in a few minutes.”

“Minutes? That's all it'll take?”

“That's all you need to know about,” Babe retorts, his tone suggest he'll hurt Bill if he says another word. “Now _out.”_

Maybe his friends decide to be merciful, or they just sense this isn’t an war that’s worth fighting. Finally, they begin dragging their feet out of the room -- taking their time for Babe’s benefit, he’s sure. His entire body feels coiled, ready to snap, as person after person slips past him out the front door.

“Babe,” Fran singsongs, knocking her hip against his on her way out. “Don't forget to be safe.”

“Make good choices!” chirps Julian with a toothy grin.

“Don't let the Doc pressure you into anything you've never done before!” adds Spina.

“Just stay off the goddamn couch!” is all Bill says. And then, they're finally alone.

Babe exchanges a wide eyed glance with Gene. “I could kill them. All of ‘em. No one would know it was me.”

Gene sighs. “Babe, I don't think you have it in you.”

Maybe not, but Babe sure has something in him -- and his birthday present isn’t going to be ruined by a bunch of well-intentioned friends. His hands lock on Gene’s elbows, drawing him back towards him, and Gene lets out a huff of breath as their chests knock against each other. Babe grins.

“Better put those minutes to use,” he mutters. Gene, smirks, looping his arms around his neck.

“Heffron, you better keep them waiting.”


End file.
